


we're the same here always

by xhbx



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xhbx/pseuds/xhbx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mara Jade didn't cry, and one time she did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're the same here always

**(5) it means mother to crack open**

Down the hall, the baby snuffles in his sleep. On the edge of sleep herself, Mara jerks awake, waiting to see if the next sound is a cry. Ben makes no further noise, so she tries to relax, but the jolt of adrenaline has made that suddenly impossible. It’s a familiar cycle now, in these early days post-birth.

Her thoughts start racing. How much longer until the next feeding? That tiny noise he made—was that one of the thousands of small sounds he makes that she’s starting to catalogue as typical of babies? Or was it a sign of distress? Is the silence that’s followed one of deeper sleep, or has he stopped breathing? Stars, these post-partum hormones are making every little thing seem overwhelming.

She tries to tamp down on her emotions so she doesn’t disturb Luke sleeping next to her and simultaneously reaches out towards Ben with the Force. He’s fine. Of course. _Stop_ , she tells herself. But it’s too late, Mara’s throat starts to close, and her eyes burn, but she can’t, she won’t, she fought so hard to be here for this, to have this blessing, and these feelings will pass, they have to they must they will and soon—

She breathes through the panic.

 

**(4) whatever a sun will always sing is you**

Mara never thought to get married. She’s kept most people in her life at arm’s length, including—perhaps especially—the various partners she’s had through the years.

And so it takes her by surprise when the doors open and she sees Luke, and the music swells, and she has to swallow hard in the face of his wide, shining grin. She can tell Karrde senses her split second of hesitation as she gathers herself, but then they are walking down the aisle, and Mara doesn’t cry because she’s too busy smiling.

 

**(3) in fire and in blood**

The firefight wasn’t long, but the thugs had had good aim, and Mara hadn’t quite been quick enough to dodge the last bolt they got off before Aves finished flanking them and ended the fight. The wound in her thigh is ugly and deep, dangerous if she doesn’t get it seen to, but not deadly.

_Kriff_ , it hurts, though. Reflexively, her eyes water, and suddenly she is angry—at herself, at the thugs, at the whole damn galaxy. Karrde is not going to be happy that the local underbelly is looking to muscle in on his operation here, and this is her first run where she’s been given greater responsibility, so that’ll make her look real good. For a second she just feels so helplessly frustrated at the situation that she feels like giving in to her body’s response and letting the tears flow. But Aves is approaching, so she settles for briefly clenching her fists and then releasing. Leg throbbing, she grits her teeth and takes a limping step forward.

"Let’s get out of here."

 

**(2) the taste of stone**

It feels like the end of all things.

The vision and command had been clear—YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER—and then he was ripped away. The pain was so great that her body had collapsed in on itself, and yet, she did not cry. Even now that the initial shock has passed, and the true devastation of the Emperor’s death has been wrought, she has not wept.

Some things are too deeply felt for tears.

 

**(1) behold a gift designed to kill**

She stands over the body, hands trembling and slippery with blood.

It should have been clean—slip the wire over his head, hold tight—and Mara’s not exactly sure what went wrong. But then he’d lurched, and the wire slid out of her grasp. She had fumbled while reaching for her vibroblade, her thoughts scrambling with the panic of a failed plan. He stumbled, though, lunging across the lush carpet towards the silent alarm she knew was on the other side of the desk. It gave her enough time to finally get her grip on the blade, to fall on top of him and sink it into his side over and over again. He grunted, wheezing out a breath as she angled the vibroblade between ribs and into lung. When he collapsed, she pushed up onto her knees, grabbed his hair, pulled back, and slit his throat. It hadn’t taken long after that.

Her first kill, and it was ugly and desperate. The heavy smell of blood hangs in the air. She’s spent years training for this moment—it’s not at all how she imagined.

 

**(0) the ceremony of innocence is drowned**

12 standard years old. Not that the anniversary of Mara’s birth is ever commemorated with celebrations, like she’s seen in holovids. Rather, sometime within the month, she must complete a comprehensive exam of the instruction she’s had over the past year. Last year, she spent all day dancing, throwing knives, mixing poisons from common household cleaning agents and kitchen ingredients. This year, she knows to expect a simulated mission. But this foreknowledge doesn’t stop the flash of shock when she wakes up to total darkness in place of the familiar soft shadows of her room.

Mara closes her eyes again, opens them—no difference, just pure blackness. Her heart pounds once, hard. She feels the heat of panic prickle the back of her neck and moves to bring her hand up to her eyes, but instead it slams hard into something unyielding. She starts to lift her head, and that, too, hits something solid.

Mara’s stomach drops. How could—how did they—? She’s never breathed a word to anyone about it, but Mara counts this exact scenario of a tight, enclosed darkness as her worst fear.

She tries to tell herself to do her job, and the first step must be to escape. She takes a moment to take stock of the situation. There are only a few centimeters of space on any given side, including above her. There’s enough room to work her hands up to her face, but not enough to sit up or really even turn on her side. She speculates that there could be some internal release mechanism or lock, so she sets to work searching for it and manages to keep her breathing fairly even despite the fearful sweat that starts to drip down her face in minutes.

But an hour passes, and the lid stays closed.

She starts to feel a helpless anger rising, and once she’s lost her grip on her emotions, it’s not long before she’s noticing the stale air. How long can the air in here last? Mara holds her breath and listens hard, but her heart is pounding so loudly she’s not sure whether or not she can hear the slight hiss of air flow. Her throat tightens, so she starts to count to herself until she’s centered once more, but almost immediately her calm tears apart again like shimmersilk.

She shifts, body starting to ache from lying still, but even that small movement brushes her up against the edges of the compartment, and now she’s thinking of how close the walls are, of how much she wishes she could sit up at least, and is the oxygen in here getting thinner? Because it’s suddenly so much harder to breathe than just moments ago. Tears well up in her eyes, so she blinks, trying to will them away, but she’s losing control again. She’s starting to pant, and the panic feels like a hand squeezing her heart, her throat, feels like a constricting band around her lungs tightening more with each breath. The tears spill over, and now she’s gasping, sobbing openly, she’s beating the lid, pounding it, her hands feel numb and she can’t catch her breath, can’t—

It goes on like this for hours.

Eventually, the sobs start to ebb, but even still Mara persists in quietly weeping, clutching her bruised and bloodied hands to her chest. Her exhaustion is overwhelming. Without even quite realizing it’s happening, Mara calms just enough to drift off to sleep.

When she wakes, it’s as if she has finally crossed some threshold—she feels detached, weary and edgy but no longer terrified. She has a headache and puffy eyes, but she doesn’t cry again. There’s no point.

No one will come anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My memory of the EU is vague, so please pardon any inconsistencies. 
> 
> Story title from (a poor translation of) Anna Akhmatova's "Requiem." (5) title from Anne Marie Macari's "Mary's Blood." (4) title from ee cummings "[i carry your heart]..." (3) title from Pablo Neruda's "I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You." (2) title from Donald Hall's "White Apples." (1) title from Keith Douglas's "How to Kill." (0) title from W.B. Yeats's "The Second Coming."
> 
> Technically, the prompt was "five times Mara didn't cry and one time she didn't." I decided that was a typo, but I didn't seek clarification because it's better to ask forgiveness than permission—so this is the version I wanted to write!


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